Le Colonial by Kien Nguyen Read Free Book Online

cushion he was sitting on. “I believe . . . ,” he said, “the monsignor mentioned that he is taking a two-day trip to Villaume.”
    François gasped. The missing dagger. His village. The priest’s self-satisfied smile. Suddenly everything made sense. Villaume would be the best place for de Béhaine to gather information about his past.
If I were in his position, I would have done the very same.
François’s nails dug into the palms of his hands.
    “I need to find him!” he cried.
    A chill made him shudder. His ears were ringing. The throbbing inside his head threatened to return in full force.
    “Monsieur Gervaise, are you well?” came the monk’s voice. His hand reached for François’s shoulder.
    “No!” François sprang out of his seat. “I must stop him from going to Villaume. That is the way!”
    The monk stuttered, “W-what do you m-mean?”
    “Halt! Halt!” He jutted his head out the window and shouted at the coachman. The driver hauled at the reins, and the wagon came to a halt.
    “Get down!” he barked at the stunned man. And to the monk, he ordered, kicking the door open, “You, too, get out!”
    At the first touch of the whip, the horses bolted forward, charging in unison on the hard-packed dirt. The main road to Nîmes was simple, and he had traveled it once before. The trip to Villaume would take almost an hour. Far on the horizon, across a large field where the sun was looming in a haze, he could see the village’s outline. Nature’s cool breath was on him: the odor of fresh air. The path beneath him was a melting gray that reminded him of a river, flowing in the opposite direction.
    The road became more rutted, and the wagon swayed on its wheels. The horses galloped at a steady speed. François held tight to the reins. His muscles were taut, as if he were flying instead of riding. He watched every group of passersby and studied their faces as he overtook them. Some of the women glared at him, annoyed at his recklessness. His mind was frozen on one thought: he must prevent Monsignor de Béhaine from entering Saint Magdalene Priory.
    He saw a dark shape on the side of the road. Even from a distance he recognized the familiar black-robed figure riding on the mare. The animal was moving at a slow canter. With a shout he charged closer, pulling alongside and then advancing past the rider before he made a sharp turn to block the road a few paces ahead. His carriage skidded as the wheels locked. He fell back in his seat, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monsignor, looking on with his usual knowing expression. It was as though he had been expecting him all along.
    “So, Monsieur Gervaise, you decided to find me,” said the priest. “Are you ready to deliver a confession? Or should I hear about your past from your guardian, Father Dominique, the superior of Saint Magdalene Priory?”
    “Father, you leave me no choice in this matter,” replied François bitterly.
    “I must know what kind of man you are, and understand your nature, before I can employ you.” The monsignor reached inside his robe and retrieved the bejeweled dagger. The sharp blade quivered with the reprimanding tone in his voice. “The crest of this stiletto belongs to a noble family. How can a vagabond like you possess this valuable weapon? Is thievery one of your sins?”
    François cringed at the priest’s accusation. “I’m sorry,” he said, sobbing.
    “Did you steal this dagger?”
    He gasped, “Worse than that, Father. But before I tell you, please answer me this: would you employ a murderer to carry out God’s sacred work?”
    His question tugged a furrow across de Béhaine’s forehead. “It is not the law of man that I am concerned about,” said the priest. “It is the wrath of God and the eternal damnation of our immortal souls that terrify me. Whatever of God’s commandments you have broken, whatever grave mortal sins you have committed, even though you may think you are beyond